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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26114545">Shaken Q</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlybloomingparentheses/pseuds/earlybloomingparentheses'>earlybloomingparentheses</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Sibilant Series [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>James Bond (Craig movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Choking, Consensual Somnophilia, Continues to not be a romance but there is some sort of attachment there, Implied canon-typical violence offscreen, M/M, Relationship Development</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 07:21:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,956</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26114545</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlybloomingparentheses/pseuds/earlybloomingparentheses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Hey,” Bond says, snapping his fingers in front of Q’s nose. Q blinks up at him. “I’ll be over later,” he says. “But don’t bother waiting up. That…won’t be necessary.” A pause. “You understand?”</i>
</p>
<p>Q has a tough time at work. Bond gets unexpectedly protective.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>James Bond/Q</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Sibilant Series [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/371081</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>152</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Shaken Q</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hello it has been three years since the last installment of this series!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Q has been awake for forty-seven hours. Stopping the head of an international cabal of criminals from provoking the unhinged leader of one of Britain’s minor allies from launching an attack on its neighbor and setting off a chain of events that could end in World War III is worth losing sleep over, but as soon as the crisis has been averted, Q collapses over his desk, head barely missing his keyboard.</p>
<p>M claps him on the shoulder, murmuring something about Q’s remarkable aptitude for hacking, but he’s so exhausted his body barely registers the contact. Normally he’s wired after a high-intensity mission, but this time the adrenaline exits his body so suddenly he’s not entirely sure how he’ll get home without falling over.</p>
<p>Somebody orders him a car. Q mutters that he’ll just kip in his office, thanks, but the person is insistent and Q doesn’t have the energy to argue. It’s not until the person is hoisting him bodily into the backseat and giving the driver instructions that Q realizes it’s Bond.</p>
<p>Bond wasn’t involved in the recent crisis; Q hadn’t even known he was in the building.</p>
<p>“Hey,” Bond says, snapping his fingers in front of Q’s nose. Q blinks up at him. “I’ll be over later,” he says. “But don’t bother waiting up. That…won’t be necessary.” A pause. “You understand?”</p>
<p>It is a miracle that, after a moment, Q does.</p>
<p>“Yes?” Bond asks.</p>
<p>“Yes,” says Q. “Yes, why not.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He passes out the moment his head hits the pillow. He doesn’t hear Bond come in a couple hours later. He doesn’t hear him open the bedroom door, or remove his shoes, or take off his clothes and hang them neatly over a chair. He doesn’t, later on, remember registering Bond’s weight on the bed, or his hands pulling down Q’s trousers and pants. He thinks, maybe, he was aware in some barely conscious corner of his mind that Bond’s weight was settling on his legs, thinks he has some distant dream-memory of penetration, a hazy sensation of something breaching and stretching, something moving inside him. At some point, after some minutes, he starts to shift between sleep and waking, starts to stir, slow, syrupy, half-dreaming, fingers twitching and falling still and twitching again, eyes gummed shut, and rises up into consciousness with Bond inside him, moving.</p>
<p>He makes some muffled helpless sound into his pillow and feels his body rocked back and forth. The sensation is thick, slow, a hum or a wave, enveloping him, a point of peculiar focus and the rest of him awash in something inexorable and strange and lovely. Bond runs his hand briefly through Q’s hair, acknowledging his wakefulness, and pushes in and out.</p>
<p>At first Q can’t distinguish the flow of Bond’s spunk from the odd river of half-sleep that keeps washing through him. He recognizes it after a moment, but there is nothing he can or needs to do. He falls back into sleep as Bond pulls out, barely registering Bond’s gentle hand on his waist.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He awakens naked and clean. Bond isn’t there when he blinks his eyes open onto afternoon sunshine. Q feels exquisitely sated. He yawns, stretching, and sits up in bed, wondering if he wants to sleep a little more.</p>
<p>He gets up to take a piss. His bath towel is folded double over the towel bar; Q only folds it once. Bond must have used it, probably to clean off Q’s arse. Unusually thoughtful of him, though Q is definitely going to wash that towel before using it again.</p>
<p>A good round of world-saving followed a good fucking. He didn’t even have to do any work for the latter. Not bad. Not bad at all.</p>
<p>Q heads to the kitchen. Tea, strong. That’s what he needs. Or maybe even coffee, given that he’s still yawning his head off.</p>
<p>He stops in the doorway. Blinks. There’s a bag of coffee beans, fresh, sealed, on the counter. Sumatran coffee, from Indonesia. Notes of wild mushrooms, peat, and balsamic vinegar. Harvested, apparently, by a process called “wet hulling.” The fancy script on the bag compares it to high-end scotch.</p>
<p>Well, Q thinks. That was unexpected.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>One normal week at work. Q fiddles with his tech; Bond fucks off to Malaysia for a quick mission, fucks around with the new office assistant, fucks Q once or twice. Normal. Then a package comes for Q, sturdy brown envelope sealed at the top, gets through all the scanners and everything, and when he opens it it’s a tiny explosive triggered to go off in thirty seconds.</p>
<p>Five seconds: absorb the situation. Five more seconds: plan what to do. Nine seconds: cross the room, open the safe. Four more: thrust the explosive inside next to the extremely secret new microchip tracker Q has been working on. Another five: close and lock the safe, run out of the room. Two seconds left, split between panic and regret for the microchip.</p>
<p>At thirty seconds, the floor shakes. A sound that is neither a crash nor a boom nor a pop echoes through the room, muffled and metallic and still horribly loud. Q’s hand is on his mouth, pressing against a yell that tries to escape when the bomb goes off.</p>
<p>“What the <em>fuck</em>—” somebody says, and then the building swarms into action, alarms, lockdown, feet pounding down the hall. Yael, his whiz kid twenty-year-old coworker, calls his name.</p>
<p>“Q!” She’s running toward him now. “Holy shit, Q, are you okay?”</p>
<p>His ears are ringing. “You shouldn’t run towards an explosion.”</p>
<p>She stares at him, then lets out a sigh of relief. “Oh thank goodness, you’re still a prick. What <em>happened</em>?”</p>
<p>“A very tiny bomb,” Q says, snapping out of his momentary freeze and reaching for the handle of his office door. “Sent through the mail.”</p>
<p>“How the fuck—”</p>
<p>The safe did its job. You’re not supposed to be able to break into it by blowing it up, so Q had hoped the opposite would be true as well. It’s come dislodged from the wall, tearing chunks of metal paneling with it, revealing drywall and dust. The very expensive LED screen on the adjacent wall is dull and cracked. One corner of the safe has dug its way into the cement floor. It looks like a meteor in a crater.</p>
<p>“Well,” says Q, feeling quite calm and distant, slipping his shaking hands into his pockets, “let’s find out who did this.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Considering how expertly the bomb was snuck through MI6’s security defenses—several people get fired for that, and one may possibly go to prison—it’s not very difficult to find out who sent it and why. Hack into one international cabal, Q thinks, prevent one criminal mastermind from setting off a world war, and what do you get for it? A far too close brush with death for someone whose job barely takes them outside the office.</p>
<p>M commends Q for his quick thinking and makes sure he’s got a security detail on him at all times until they manage to deal with the people who sent the bomb. This means men in black suits and black cars tailing him on his way home, and a not very inconspicuous bodyguard posted outside his flat. Q can just see her lurking in the streetlight from his big windows. It may be overkill, but he’s not going to argue. An agent would object for reasons of pride; Q’s ego is plenty big, but not when it comes to threats of physical violence.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He falls asleep with a little more trouble than usual and awakens in the dark, clock reading 1:03 a.m. His heart rockets into his mouth, pulse suddenly racing, when he sees the figure at the foot of the bed. The person tilts their head and in the light filtering through the curtains, Q sees it’s Bond.</p>
<p>“Jesus,” he says, hand clutching his chest. “What the hell?”</p>
<p>“Did I scare you?” Bond sounds amused. “It’s not as if this is the first time I’ve broken into your flat in the middle of the night.”</p>
<p>“It’s the first time you’ve sat at the foot of my bed watching me sleep like some creepy teenage vampire.” Q tries to get his breathing steady again. He glares at Bond. “Why the fuck aren’t you in me right now?”</p>
<p>He can’t see Bond raise his eyebrow, but he can hear it in his voice. “Demanding, aren’t you?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” says Q. Now that he’s convinced his body he’s not about to be blown into bits, his cock is expressing a certain amount of interest in the situation.</p>
<p>Bond shakes his head. “Not tonight.”</p>
<p>For a second Q thinks this is a game, but he can see otherwise in the set of Bond’s shoulders. “You’re serious.”</p>
<p>“That’s not what I’m here for.”</p>
<p>“Then what are you here for?”</p>
<p>Bond shifts in the chair he’s pulled up to the foot of the bed. “Security.”</p>
<p>“Security.” Q waits. Nothing more is forthcoming. “Are you saying M sent you?”</p>
<p>He doubts this extremely. Bond wouldn’t be sent to protect him; that would be considered massive overkill by their boss. Q is important, but you don’t get 007 as a bodyguard unless you’ve got nuclear codes in your briefcase.</p>
<p>“Bond,” he says, confusion creeping over him, “I have security. There’s a guard outside.”</p>
<p>“I know,” says Bond. His voice sounds steely. “I didn’t even have to disable her to get in.”</p>
<p>Q watches him for a long moment. He wishes the man’s face weren’t in shadow.</p>
<p>“So you’re going to sit here, all night long, at the foot of my bed, in case someone tries to break in and murder me.”</p>
<p>Bond doesn’t answer.</p>
<p>Q bites his lip. “Well,” he says eventually, “you’re sure you won’t fuck me, as long as you’re here?”</p>
<p>Silence.</p>
<p>Q sighs, and pulls the covers back up, dropping his head down onto the pillow. “Fine,” he mutters. “I guess I’ll just try to sleep, then.” And after awhile, he does.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Bond is still there in the morning.</p>
<p>“Don’t you have work?” Q asks when he walks into his kitchen and sees Bond there, sipping a steaming cup of black tea.</p>
<p>“You’re taking time off,” Bond says. He looks obnoxiously alert for a man who spent the night sitting up keeping watch. No wrinkles in his trousers or bunches in his sweater. At least two guns in holsters on his person, though only Q’s expert eye would be able to pinpoint their locations.</p>
<p>“Ye-es,” Q says. Is he slower than usual? Is his brain getting tripped up by yesterday’s near miss?</p>
<p>“I’m staying where you are,” Bond says patiently.</p>
<p>Q tests the water in the kettle—still hot—and pours some over his own teabag. He splashes a little milk in and stirs, spoon clinking against the side of the mug. He sits at the counter and sips.</p>
<p>“Hm,” he says.</p>
<p>Bond just…stays. All day. Which, Q thinks, furiously washing the dishes, sensing the man’s immovable presence at his back, is hardly <em>new</em>, or something Q would <em>object </em>to, but having Bond in his flat fully clothed for this long—and, more to the point, with Q fully clothed for this long—is downright unnerving. Q keeps thinking that surely it is a sex thing, somehow, a waiting game or tease or <em>something</em>, because he’s double checked and Bond has certainly not been assigned to watch him, so what the hell is he doing here?</p>
<p>Q might find it flattering if that weren’t so laughable.</p>
<p>He spends an hour or so attempting to get some work done remotely, but his nerves are frayed and all he can really think about, with Bond there, is how bloody fantastic a good hard rogering would be. Maybe some spanking. Light choking. Something to settle him. Distract him, at least.</p>
<p>Around 11:00 a.m. he gives up on work and drops onto the sofa. Bond won’t even join him; he’s still in position by the front door. Q can see him, his head turned away. He frowns.</p>
<p>He switches on the telly and flips though the channels. Soap opera, boring, medical drama, boring. Eyes on the back of Bond’s head, he selects a children’s program, a bright blocky cartoon with lots of high-pitched singing. He turns the volume up.</p>
<p>Bond turns to glance at him, eyebrows raised. Q gives him a sweet smile.</p>
<p>Bond returns to staring at the door. Q allows the kids’ show to continue for another fifteen minutes, waiting for some reaction, but in the end he has to give up to halt a blossoming headache.</p>
<p>Next he chooses a spy thriller. Something from the eighties, a movie he vaguely recognizes as a classic. They’re talking weapons, and even Q, whose knowledge is generally limited to current models amenable to his own technical modifications, knows the screenwriter was full of shit. With narrowed eyes, he watches for the telltale signs of annoyance from Bond: tightened shoulders, clenched jaw. He can just see a muscle in Bond’s neck twitch. He grins.</p>
<p>He has to change the channel again when the explosions start, though. A little too close for comfort.</p>
<p>He flips through more programs. He doesn’t even know why he has traditional television; between streaming services and some creative internet use, he can see everything he wants without it. He picks up his phone, syncing it up with the telly. Time to bring in the big guns.</p>
<p>He plays one with three guys, all absurdly muscled, cocks almost comically large. There’s a lot of grunting and a lot of talk of <em>your pansy arse </em>and <em>your pussy </em>and <em>fuck you dry. </em>Bond’s shoulders tense as soon as he hears the first theatrical moan. Q watches him intently, eyes trained on the movement of Bond’s back as the spy inhales deeper and slower than usual. <em>Turn</em>, he wills him, <em>turn around</em>, but Bond stays still.</p>
<p>Q ends up pushing his trousers and pants down and fucking hard into his own hand as the men in the video grunt and yell. He thinks maybe his moans and gasps will get Bond over to the couch at least—Q wouldn’t care if he watched the door while jerking Q off—but Bond remains immobile.</p>
<p>His ears are pink, though, and Q would bet a year’s salary on it that he’s at least half hard.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>That night, Q sleeps naked. Bond sits on a chair at the foot of his bed. As he’s drifting off, Q pushes the sheets to the side, rolls onto his stomach.</p>
<p>“Anytime you want,” he murmurs into the pillow. “If you get bored in the middle of the night, feel free…”</p>
<p>“Go to sleep, Q,” Bond says. Q swears he hears a smile in Bond’s voice.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The next morning, Bond is gone.</p>
<p>Alarmed, Q makes a sweep through the flat, still naked—if there’s trouble any intruder will get an eyeful—but it’s empty and undisturbed. He peers out the window. The agent on guard is still there, hands thrust deep into her pockets.</p>
<p>Q breathes a sigh of relief. Though there’s a twinge of something else, too; he guesses Bond has decided he isn’t such an important asset after all.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He wears his flannel pjyamas that night, new green-and-white striped ones with matching tops and bottoms. When he awakens with a start, just past two a.m., Bond is staring down at him.</p>
<p>“Jesus,” Q gasps, “you’d think I’d get used to it, but—”</p>
<p>Bond’s hand shoots out. His fingers close on Q’s neck.</p>
<p>Q abruptly falls silent.</p>
<p>“He will not,” Bond says in a low, menacing voice, “be bothering you again, Q.”</p>
<p>His fingers are light, but firm, each fingertip pressed against Q’s skin.</p>
<p>“Oh,” says Q. Static flickers across his mind. He swallows, feeling Bond’s fingers move with his throat. “No more explosives sent to Q branch, then?”</p>
<p>Bond presses tighter, beginning to restrict Q’s airways. “No.”</p>
<p>“Oh, good,” Q says, voice just slightly strained. “What, er…what did you—”</p>
<p>Bond’s hand clenches. Q’s breath cuts off with a gasp. He struggles to force air down his throat, fingers twitching at his sides.</p>
<p>Bond lets him breathe, just a little. Q sucks in as much as he can before Bond’s fingers tighten again.</p>
<p>“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it,” Bond says, and crushes his mouth against Q’s. Q struggles to kiss back, mouth open but throat closed, for long, long seconds, before Bond releases Q’s neck and climbs on top of him.</p>
<p>Gasping for dizzying breaths, the rest of Q is pinned under Bond’s weight, pyjamas bunched up at his stomach, Bond’s belt digging into his skin. Q wraps his limbs spiderlike around Bond, ankles meeting each other around Bond’s legs, hands around Bond’s back. Bond presses the air out of him even without his hand on Q’s throat, bearing down on Q’s belly and lungs, heavy, sharp-edged. Bond envelops him, crouching like some hungry monster ready to feast on his flesh. Q holds on for dear life.</p>
<p>Bond puts him through it. Not methodically, drawing it out, like he’s often done before; not calculated, or at the very least calculated to seem rough and reckless. Bond wrests his cock free of his trousers and, Q still on his back wrapped around Bond’s hulking body, fucks Q into the mattress. Q’s shoulders will have fingerprint bruises on them in the morning. His legs will be sore, thighs aching and strained.</p>
<p>Bond’s neck arches up when he comes, glistening in the dim light through the curtains, and he bares his teeth.</p>
<p>Then he squeezes Q’s cock like he squeezed his throat, till Q comes too, gasping for breath.</p>
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